


underneath the water

by emmaofmisthaven



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Enchanted Forest, Captain Duckling, F/M, Lieutenant Duckling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 08:23:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4093879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaofmisthaven/pseuds/emmaofmisthaven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her lady mother may believe her too young, but Emma thinks she is the right age to flutter her eyelashes at the sailor with the eyes like the sea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	underneath the water

Emma bounces on her seat, unable to repress her excitement. Aunt Red had promised her, all those months ago, that they would go to town for her tenth birthday, had promised a day of wandering through the little streets and the colourful marketplace. She did not disappoint, Emma’s eyes bright and eager as they took in everything around her as they walk through town, her hand locked into the werewolf’s hold. Even now, after several hours of adventures, she still moves with energy, barely able to stay in place for more than a few instants as they wait for the innkeeper to bring them the food and drinks they ordered.

Red smiles kindly, if a little tiredly, at the young princess as she goes on and on about what this or that. She can’t keep the enthusiasm from her voice – it is so rare for her to be allowed out the castle for so long, after all – and many a patron turns a curious eye on her when they recognize her golden hair and expensive dress. Some even listen intently, a smile on their lips, amused by their future queen’s antics.

She is the middle of recounting their stop at the shoemaker’s shop when the inn’s door opens, cutting her mid-sentence as she stops to start at the group of men making their way inside the inn. They all wear uniforms, the blue and white of King Georges’ kingdom, standing tall and proud as they make their way toward an empty table. She seems mesmerized by them for a moment, before her eyes fall on the boy following them. He wears clothes cut from the same cloth, a deep blue, and sits with them at the table in a way that makes it look like he’s trying to disappear from their sights.

It is a strange behaviour, and Emma turns toward Red with a pout.

“Are boys allowed to be sailors?” she asks flippantly.

“No,” Red replies simply, the ghost of a grin on her lips as she looks away from the sailors and back to Emma. “But boys are allowed to be cabin boys, which he probably is.”

Emma pouts a little more as she mulls over Red’s words, before she accepts the answer as a valid one with a nod and a shrug. She grabs her mug of apple cider then, both hands wrapped around it, and take a long sip of her drink – she knows it is apple juice, not alcohol, but the innkeeper is good at playing pretend with her.

When she looks back to the sailor above her shoulder, the boy is looking straight back at her, with wide curious eyes. She makes a face, and then grabs her fork once more to finish her plate.

 

…

 

Roland is assigned as her personal guard when she is twelve and he sixteen. Emma likes him, a lot – he grew up around the castle, what with his mother having helped hers during the war against the Evil Queen, and so Emma wasn’t surprised when he asked to become a royal guard. She didn’t expect for him to be assigned to her, her guards always much older and much more experienced, but she can’t say that she minds. Roland laughs easily and always hides little cakes in his pockets for when she is hungry.

He follows her into town one day – her lord father’s birthday is close, and she would very much like to buy him a present, even if she hasn’t set her mind as to what to buy. Roland is patient enough to follow her through many shops, hand on the pommel of his sword and glaring at people who walk too close, and when she is done with her shopping, he agrees to have a drink at the tavern before going back to the castle.

The tavern is quiet in the late afternoon, dockers not done with their day of work yet, and only a bunch of sailors raise their heads when Emma and Roland enter, only to go back to their conversation instants later. Roland chooses a table in the back, close to the kitchen’s entrance if they ever need to make a quick escape, and Emma smiles at how serious he is in his task of protecting her. He’s older than her but she still remembers him when he was a reckless boy running around the castle’s gardens playing the knight with the other kitchen boys. Sometimes, it’s hard to associate that boy to the guard in front of her, but then he smiles and everything is all right.

The innkeeper brings their apple juices with complementary slices of cherry pie when a boy her age stumbles down the stairs of the tavern, and he stops on the last step, staring at her with his mouth slightly ajar. She stares back for a moment before recognition flashes in her mind.

“I know you!” she says with a gleeful laugh.

The boy flushes red instantly, even more so when Roland looks between the two of them with a frown. “No, you don’t.” And then, as an afterthought, he adds, “Your Highness,” with a little nod of the head that might pass as a bow.

He doesn’t quite run towards the sailors’ table, but it’s a close thing, and then a young man nudges him with a laugh, to which her replies with a face before he finishes his drink in one long gulp.

When Emma stops staring at him, she meets Roland’s confused eyes. “I don’t really know him. He was in the inn Red and I visited for my tenth birthday.”

Roland simply nods in reply, and then shoves a forkful of pie in his mouth. He speaks around the food, just to annoy Emma, and she makes a face at him. “You have an excellent memory, Your Highness.”

She doesn’t tell him the boy’s eyes are impossible to forget.

 

…

 

Outings with Roland, though neither a monthly or weekly occurrence, become a habit through the years. Her parents don’t mind, saying it is a good thing for Emma to mingle with her people, for her to see more of their kingdom than the royal castle. As long as she has a guard with her, and Roland is always by her side anyway, she can wander around the kingdom to her heart’s content.

It of course means Emma always finds excuses to go to town with Roland. She only stays at the castle when her preceptors are there to teach her politics, etiquette and the arts of sword-fighting (they gave up on piano lessons a while ago), but the days where her schedule if free find her in town, at the harbour, or even in the forest. She likes the harbour best, even if she can’t explain why – there is peace in the waves crashing against the docks, in the sings of seagulls and the sun disappearing in the horizon. She loves it the most, could spend hours just watching as the blue of the sky turns to pinks and oranges and purples, stars lightening up one after the other as Orion and Cassiopeia wake up with the moon.

She loves the tavern too – the loud laughs and easy conversations, women’s bosoms spilling over the neckline of their dress, men’s beards and bellies round with beers. There is a rawness to them she doesn’t find in court, and she could spend hours listening to their stories, their lives. They are kind to her because she is the crown princess, she knows, but it never stops brazen men from telling stories she shouldn’t hear – Roland’s ears turning a crimson shade, with anger or embarrassment, she can never tell.

It is on such an occurrence, as she snorts into her mug while Rosie the maid tells her about her last conquest, that a shadow looms over her. She sees Roland reaching for his sword at the same time the newcomer says, “I know you!”

She looks up to the man – boy, really – only to meet bright blue eyes, and her breath catches in her throat a bit. She recognizes him, of course, but he has changed so much since the last time she saw him, almost two years ago, that it catches her by surprise. He’s taller now, lanky and a bit awkward, with clothes that don’t quite fit and a skinny sword by his hip. She flushes, just a bit.

“I know you, too!” she replies happily.

He gestures for the empty chair at their table with the hand that isn’t holding a drink, and she glances at Roland’s murderous glare before nodding, perhaps a little too eagerly. Her lady mother believes her to be too young to start her official courtship, but Emma grew out of that period where everything a boy does is disgusting to her eyes. She even finds Roland attractive, at times, but knows he has his eyes on a maid.

Her lady mother may believe her too young, but Emma thinks she is the right age to flutter her eyelashes at the sailor with the eyes like the sea. He smiles at her, a little crooked and a little shy, as he drops his drink to the table and sits on the empty chair.

“You know me, but you are yet to introduce yourself, sailor.”

He flushes, the red high on his cheeks and ears, and it does things to her – the same surge of something that she feels when she sidesteps Lancelot’s blow at the last second during their sparring, heart racing and mind going a little blank around the edges.

“Killian Jones of the Jewel of the Realm, Your Highness.”

He takes her hand in his, but doesn’t kiss the back of it, simply holds it for a moment, as he doesn’t look away, his gaze steady in hers. She smiles a little, before taking her hand back and pulling it in her lap with the other.

“You can call me Emma,” she tells him.

“No, you bloody well can’t,” Roland growls by her side.

She ignores him but Killian doesn’t, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he casts a glance to her guard before focusing back on her. His smile wavers a little with nervousness, and she finds it all too charming.

“It’s a pleasure meeting you, Your Highness.”

He stresses the title a little, just an excess of politeness, and she stifles a laugh with a sip of her drink not to openly mock him. She doesn’t want to mock him – he’s sweet and enough of a gentleman that she finds it endearing. Most boys her age are crude and cruel, playing battles with wooden swords and thinking themselves better because they have blue blood. Emma despises them, and her own blood runs cold at the though of ever marrying one of them.

“The pleasure is mine,” she replies with another smile followed by another sip of her drink. “Are you a sailor, then?”

He looks away as he opens his mouth, the silent word turning into a smile on his lips. “Not yet. I’m still a cabin boy, but I will officially become one after my fifteen birthday. In two months.”

Emma nods, and notes that they are indeed the same age, even if he seems to be a few months older. She leans her elbow on the table, chin resting in the palm of her hand, and Roland scoffs next to her, no doubt at how obvious she is. She doesn’t care, before Killian’s eyes fall to her lips for the briefest of moments before he focuses back on her eyes, and she relishes in the small tremor in her chest at the sight of it.

“Tell me of your travels. You must have seen such wonderful places!”

He does – tells her all about Agrabah, since they left the faraway desert a month ago, stopping in her kingdom on their way back to King Georges’ to restock the ship with water and food and other supplies. He tells her of the desert, blinding gold for miles on ends, the sand burning between your toes and the sun heavy on your head. He tells her of little monkeys and deadly snakes, of men with turbans on their heads and women with intricate drawing on their hands and arms. Of fruits, juicy and sweet to the tongue, of spices that smell so good and pastries dripping with honey.

Emma is rapt by his words, painting such vivid images in her mind. Her parents promised that she would start traveling with them once she has reached her fifteenth birthday, to other kingdoms for balls and diplomatic missions. If she couldn’t wait before, her anticipation is even more palpable now – she wants to see those landscapes he describes for her, wants to witness it with her own eyes.

“Killian, you tosser!”

They both startle at the loud voice, and even Roland seems to be disconcerted by it. Three pairs of eyes find a man standing in the doorframe of the tavern, looking at Killian like he wishes to wrap his hands around the boy’s neck and squeeze. His eyes travel from him to Emma, and widen a bit as they take in her face. He stumbles on his words a little. “Princess – Your Highness. I do apologize for my crude language.” Then he looks at Killian again. “Back to the ship, now.”

Killian almost falls in his haste to jump on his feet, downing his drink in one go before he turns to Emma once more. He stares at her with wide eyes for long seconds, before he says, “It truly was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Highness.”

She beams at him, a little. “Do you know when you’ll be back to our kingdom?”

He pouts, and it’s endearing. “Sadly, no. But you can look for our ship in the harbour. White sails and yellow paint, the fastest ship in all of the realms. Impossible to miss!”

She nods, and he flashes a grin at her, once that forms dimples on his cheeks, before he dashes away. Emma stares at the door for longer than is necessary, until Roland whistles, long and low and sarcastic. She blindly reaches for his face and pushes it away, palm of her hand against his cheek.

 

…

 

Emma’s first diplomatic mission outside of her kingdom turns out not to be of the political kind. Princess Melody’s fourteenth birthday sees an invitation sent by personal carrier to Snow White, and the queen elects that Emma should be the one to go and represent the kingdom at the ball threw for the occasion.

Saying that Emma is surprised, as well as ecstatic, would be an understatement – she spends the following week with her seamstresses so she can have a gown for the ball, as well as several outfits for the journey. King Eric’s kingdom isn’t that far from Snow White’s, but it will take Emma a few days to make it there in a carriage, and she knows better than to wear her usual clothes on the road.

Roland is to come with her, of course, as well as two of her maids, and so they spend most of the travel playing cards or reading, when she is not napping on her guard’s shoulder. They stop one night in an inn on the side of the road, before going back the following morning. King Eric’s castle appears in the distance in the late afternoon, proudly standing against the ocean, waves lapping at the cliff underneath.

Melody’s birthday is no small affair, invitations sent to all the kingdoms in Mist Haven, as well as the lands across the sea, and so many other lords and royals arrive when Emma does – the dining hall full of conversations, the guest wings occupied for a few days. The atmosphere soon becomes suffocating within the wall of the castle and so, the afternoon before the ball, Emma takes Roland with her to wander outside the palace and into the costal town.

The town is peaceful, a sharp contrast with the confusion of the castle, and Emma allows herself a few hours of peace as she moves from shop to shop. She buys a pair of beautiful pearl earrings, ones she will most likely wear tonight, then Roland and she decide to walk down the pier before going back to the castle. She’s so busy admiring the horizon, miles and miles of deep blue sea, that she startles when Roland taps on her shoulder, then points something to her.

The gasp of surprise gets stuck in her throat as she turns her head, only to find a proud vessel docked to the harbour, its white sail clashing against the blue of the sky, its yellow paint turning golden in the sun.

“A stop by the tavern wouldn’t hurt, I guess,” Roland says, almost mockingly, his sentence ending in a laugh as Emma elbows him in the ribs.

They’re both unfamiliar with the town’s taverns, but the closest one to the harbour seems like a fair enough bet. And, indeed, when Roland holds the door open to her, Emma is welcomed inside by the easy chatter of sailors, their carefree laughs and passionate conversations. She spots Killian among them and, as if feeling her gaze on his, he chooses that moment to raise his head, their eyes meeting across the room. A grin settles on his lips as he jumps to his legs with all the clumsiness his long limbs offer, and all but trots towards her under the knowing chuckles of the other sailors.

His outfit is different now, simple shirt and pants replaced by the sharp uniform of King Georges’ Royal Navy, and Emma can only grin at the sight. “Congratulation, sailor.”

He ducks his head and flushes, Emma’s heart warming in reply. “Thank you, Your Highness. Can I be so bold as to offer you a drink?”

She glances at Roland, who simply gives her a nod in reply, seemingly not threatened for her life in the security of the tavern and of Killian’s company. “I would love to,” she says then, and gleefully accepts Killian’s arm as he leads her to an empty table, as far from the other sailors as possible.

“Tell me about your travels,” she asks him all too excitingly once they’re settled and he has orders drinks for the both of them.

Roland sits at a table nearby, far enough to give them some privacy but close enough to jump if danger was to arise. She idly wonders what his orders are regarding suitors – if he even has orders on the subject, or if her lord father didn’t see it fit to bother with such details as of yet. Emma doesn’t want to push her luck, especially knowing she ought to be chaperoned by another woman once in the company of a suitor. Killian is only a friend, after all, not a man having officially asked the King to court her. Perhaps that is why Roland is letting him be, toying with the pedantic rules of courtship.

“My travels?” Killian asks with a disbelieving laugh. “Your Highness is outside the borders of her realms. I want to hear about _your_ travels for a change.”

She beams at him, bouncing in her seat a little, before she throws herself in he retelling of the past few days. Her is not a fascinating tale – their travel was uneventful at most, boring at worst – but she still shares details of the landscapes she saw, the people she met in the inn. Killian listens careful, only interrupting her for a comment or a question, always with a smile and a gentle edge to his eyes.

She talks about tonight’s ball a bit, mostly to make conversation, when Roland abandons his table to lightly tap on her shoulder. “We should go now, or else you’ll be late.”

She pouts, only a little, but knows how important tonight is for her – she won’t disappoint her parents when they put their trust in her, when she needs to be on her best behaviour to represent her kingdom. So she nods, and stands up too, not without a last moment with Killian.

“It was nice seeing you, as always.”

“The pleasure is mine, your Highness. As always.” He grins that crooked smile of his, and adds, “We’ll be anchoring in your harbour in two weeks, if Your Highness wants to spend more time in my company.”

She grins back, but isn’t given the luxury of an answer as Roland is already pushing her outside the tavern, hand on her lower back. Her guard rolls his eyes good-naturally as he leads her back to the castle, but doesn’t comment.

 

…

 

Two weeks later find her glancing by the window with a sigh, every five minutes or so, much to her preceptor’s displeasure. She is barely listening to the lesson of the day and, if asked, would probably not even be able to say what subject the preceptor is rambling about – the ogre war or the giant war, perhaps, she isn’t certain. The sea is clear and blue beyond the window, not a vessel in sight, and Emma forces herself to look away and back to the heavy book opened in front of her on the table.

The library is suffocating with today’s unexpected heat wave, thin cotton dress sticking uncomfortably to Emma’s body. Her hair is up so it doesn’t fall on her neck, and all she wishes it to be out of this room – wandering the streets of the town or lounging on the warm sand of the beach, it doesn’t matter. She simply wants to enjoy today for what it is, the most beautiful day of the summer, instead of having historical facts shoved into her brain.

With yet another sigh, her eyes wander to the window again, only for her to startle on the spot as she spies a ship in the distance. Nothing but a white dot in the horizon, but a ship nonetheless. Her heart jumps against her ribcage with something akin to hope as she stares at the sea and watches the ship growing bigger with each mile closer to shore. Emma can’t make out the ship’s colours as of yet, but she prays for brown and yellow, prays for her sailor to drop anchor before evening.

“You could at least pretend to care.”

She looks up to her preceptor as he stares her down with a disapproving shake of the head, lips drawn into a thin line. She shoots him a grin she hopes convey the apology she isn’t feeling, before she forces herself to focus back on her book. She lasts for about five minutes before another sigh escapes her lips. Her preceptor clicks his tongue but nods to the door nonetheless, and Emma doesn’t hide her relief as she closes the book with a loud snap and dashes out of the library.

Roland waits in the hallway, deep in conversation with one maid, and so Emma rolls her good-naturedly as she grabs his arm and pulls him towards her. He stumbles a bit but finds his balance easily, before glaring daggers at her.

“He’ll come back, I promise,” she tells the maid with a grin.

“Why is your love life more important than mine?” he snarls back immediately.

“She lives here. He lives on a ship. And mind your language.”

He scoffs at her, knowing fully well he can afford to be brash with her if he so feels like it. Because they are close, but mostly because he could blackmail her with the exact same reason why she’s pulling him through the hallways with a fury. Still, they both have the common sense to look a little less unkempt as they reach the castle’s gates, least they raise the suspicions of the other guards.

The trek to the tavern is a short one, thankfully, and Emma is rewarded with Killian’s grin when she enters the place. He sits with his arms folded on a table, two mugs in front of him, hair still mussed by the wind and nose pink with the sun. Emma doesn’t bite her lip at the sight, but it’s a close thing.

“Long time not seen,” he tells her cheekily as she takes the seat opposite her.

Emma giggles, a little. “Indeed. How was your journey?”

“Good. Peaceful. How was the ball?”

A groan escapes her lips before she has time to swallow it down, and Emma toys with the need to presses her hands to her mouth in shame. Her lady mother always scolds her for those spontaneous noises, saying they are not fitting of a future queen. Killian only raises his eyebrows in amusement.

“It was awful,” she concedes. “One lord tried to grope me during our dance, and I couldn’t punch him without starting a diplomatic incident.”

Anger flashes through his eyes. It’s gone when he blinks, but Emma stares at him a little while longer, flattered that he would be affronted by the ungentlemanly behaviour for her behalf.

“It was bad form of him to act that way,” he tells her as he finally looks away to grab his mug and take a sip.

“It was, indeed.”

She wonders how Killian would act if he were the one to share a dance with her. Surely he would be proper, hands high on her hips and body distant from hers. Her lips twitch at the thought even as she buries the image deep within the confines of her mind – no point dwelling on it when she will never share more than a drink and a few stories with him.

“I have something for you,” he says after a while, both to reopen the conversation and to change the subject. Her eyes widen as he reaches into the pocket of his uniform. “I am fairly certain you were offered better gifts, but it reminded me of you.”

He holds his hand out to her, a beautiful bracelet resting in his palm. She takes it carefully, the leather cord soft under her fingers and the silver seashell gleaming in the tavern’s candlelight. She smiles as her thumb brushes against the shell, cold and soft to the touch.

“It truly is beautiful,” she whispers only for him to hear. “Thank you, Killian.”

A flush spreads over his cheeks as she slips the bracelet down her hand so it rests on her wrist, and he scratches a spot below his ear before he adds, “So you can think of me when I’m away.”

Her smile grows bigger, more delicate too. “I don’t need a piece of jewellery to have you on my mind.”

It is as close to a confession as Emma ever got, and she finds herself blushing too as she puts her hands on her lap and stares down at her entwined fingers. She will celebrate her coming-of-age party this autumn, and with it will come suitors from all across the realm, but Killian is the only one who has ever made her felt like she wouldn’t mind being pursued.

“I am glad to hear it,” he replies, not an ounce of mockery in his voice. “You are often on my mind, too.”

When she looks up, it’s to a newfound softness in his eyes, his crooked smile gentle and cautious. She wonders if she looks at him the same way – knows the answer to that question, actually. She wants to lean forwards and do something drastic, perhaps take his hand or even tell him she has feelings for him, when a cough startles out of the moment.

She glares at Roland, who grins back with no small amounts of glee on his features as he bounces on his feet. “We should head back before the sun set, Your Highness.”

She knows he means well, knows he only fulfils his duties, but Emma loathes him in that moment. Barely five minutes have passed since she entered the tavern, after all, but this outing was impromptu and soon people will worry about her absence. She cannot have that, or else her parents will ask where she went, and this is a question she is not ready to answer yet.

She gives Killian a smile that conveys how sorry she is to be leaving so soon, and he replies with puppy eyes of his own that don’t help in the slightest. Emma rises from her seat then and, before she can think better of it, leans forwards so she can kiss Killian’s cheek. She doesn’t linger, just a brush of lips against skin, but he still raises his fingers to the spot she kissed once she stands straighter.

Roland waits until they are on the street, making their way back to the castle, before he says, “You will have to tell your parents, eventually.”

“I will.”

 

…

 

She doesn’t tell her parents.

There is something thrilling about meeting Killian in secret – as secret at their meetings are in a public place with Roland by her side – that Emma doesn’t want to lose. She knows her parents wouldn’t mind her being courted by a sailor from another kingdom. Her parents are True Loves and want nothing but the best for her, and so would agree to her marrying whoever she sees fit. Especially since Killian is well on his way to be appointed Lieutenant, if his stories are anything to go by. She has no doubt he could become Captain too, if he so wishes, and that would be a nice title next to those of ‘husband’ and ‘prince consort’.

They keep meeting at the tavern for another year, the Jewel of the Realm dropping anchor in the harbour every month or so. They went three months without seeing each other during the winter, and it was without a doubt the three longer months in Emma’s life.

She is long past pretending she is not in love with her sailor.

The ship arrives on the horizon at the end of summer, and Emma makes sure to find an excuse as to her visit to town by the time the Jewel is moored in the harbour. Roland follows her to the tavern, the way he always does, but she stops him with a hand to his chest before he has time to open the door for her.

“Come back in two hours.”

He frowns even as he tilts his chin up. “I have my orders, Your Highness.”

“And I just gave you a new one,” she replies in the same clipped tone he used. Then, softer, “Please, Roland. You know he is no threat to me.”

Roland hesitates, because this is what is expected of him. But Emma knows that he goes back to the forest and to the Merry Men every day he isn’t by her side – knows freedom runs through his veins the way it does hers. He understands her, more than he would like to admit.

“If they kill me for it, I will come back to haunt you.”

“And what a lovely ghost you’d make,” she replies with a laugh. “Thank you.”

The tavern is surprisingly empty as she enters, Killian the only patron in sight. It makes what Emma has in mind easier, as she walks towards the table and grabs her sailor by the wrist. He startles a little but doesn’t question her as he jumps to his feet and follows her to the counter where the innkeeper wipes some mugs with a dirty rag.

“I would like to rent a room, please. This is for the room,” she says as she reaches into her pocket and puts a golden coin in his hand. She presses two more to his palm, for good measure. “And this is for your silence.”

Killian sputters next to her as the innkeeper replies, “Of course, Your Highness,” and reaches beneath the counter for the key to one of the upstairs rooms. She takes it from him with a nod and, not letting go of Killian’s wrist, walks towards the stairs.

“Are you out of your mind?” Killian whispers to her as they walk up the stairs before stopping in front of a door. “If anyone finds out, they will have my head.”

“They won’t.”

He sputters some more even as she opens the door and pulls her inside with her. The door closes softly behind them, and Emma reaches past Killian so she can bold the lock – he might not be a threat and the tavern may be empty, but one is never too careful.

Killian’s face is a bright red, the blush spreading down his neck, hidden by the high collar of his uniform. Emma idly wonders how far down it goes, fascinated by it all of a sudden. She wants to unbutton his collar, to shrug the jacket off his shoulders, and the need of it, deep within her stomach, surprises her. She forces herself to look back into his eyes, and finds him staring at her mouth.

“Why are we here, Your Highness?”

“You know why.”

Their voices are nothing but a whisper, as if speaking too loudly would break this moment hey are sharing, heavy and loaded. She takes a step forwards and Killian doesn’t move if it isn’t for his hand settling on her hip – delicately, like she will break under his fingers if he tries his luck. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down as she leans closer still, breaths mingling together in their proximity.

“There is something I want to ask you, actually.”

“Ask away, Your Highness.”

She smiles – ever so proper, even when his lips are only an inch away from hers. One of the many reasons as to why she fell for him all through the years, as to why her heart races faster at the mere thought of him.

“Will the Jewel be in port in two months? It is my birthday, and I want you there.”

“Your eighteenth birthday.” His Adam’s apple bobs once more, and he laughs nervously. “All your suitors will be there.”

“If you come, the others will not matter.”

Something flashes through his eyes – disbelief, or maybe even delight. She barely has time to notice it, let alone recognize it, before Killian’s lip crash against her, taking her by surprise. She moans softly against the pressure of his lips on hers, arms linking around his neck to pull him closer still, his body flush against her despite the several layers of clothing.

Her tongue dart out to brush against his bottom lip, tentatively, and Killian’s mouth opens effortlessly to her as he tilts his head to the side so the kiss deepens. His nose brushes against her and his hand settles against her jaw. She finds herself grateful for his other arm, tight around her waist, when her legs go a little weak in the knees under the fervour of their kiss, warm like a summer evening and passionate like those waves he so loves to sail.

When they break away, breathless and panting, the black of his pupils swallows down the blue – her stomach clenches at the sight, warmth pooling between her legs. Emma is not unfamiliar with the effects lust has on her – she has spent to many a sleepless night thinking about him for that – but the force of it is unexpected and she almost gasps in reply.

She knows it to be a bad idea. She is supposed to be pure until her wedding night, after all. But she knows the feeling of her fingers curling deep within her, and it doesn’t seem enough all of a sudden, will never be enough with Killian by her side. She cares little about the etiquette as she reaches for the buttons of his collar.

His eyes go wide, probably with the same thought that crosses her mind seconds ago, but she drops another kiss on his mouth, nibbling on his bottom lip. His groan matches the snap of his self-control as he twirls her around in his arms so he can untie the laces of her dress in her back.

“You have no idea,” he stars, then drops a kiss on her neck, “how long I have waited for this moment.”

His voice sounds broken, heavy with desire and love, and that sets them into motion. Their clothes are soon discarded on the floor, layer by layer, until they fall on the mattress, both groaning at the feeling of skin against skin. He is hard against her thigh but his hands are gentle and cautious as they travel up and down her ribs, his mouth soft against her neck. She throws her head back to give him better access, choking on a gasp when he kisses his way down her body until his lips wrap around the nipple of her right breast.

She loses all sense of space and time with the weight of his body above her, the warm of his lips on her skin. Her breathing is ragged and broken, even more so when his fingers travel down to where she needs him the most, teasing at her entrance before drawing circles around the bundle of nerves there. It is tentative and unsure, the only proof that he has as little experience as she does in the art of love making, but it doesn’t matter much when she spreads her legs for him.

She has heard stories, of course, but the pain that was described doesn’t match the pleasure rushing up her spine when he enters her – inch by slow inch until he is deep within her, her walls clenching around the length of him. She forgets all about her maids’ tales when he moves, above and inside her, and Emma can only grip his arms to keep herself anchored, nails breaking his skin a little as she moans his name.

His teeth bite into the sensitive skin of her neck as he fastens their rhythm, hips rocking against her unforgivingly until her breath catches in her throat and she is left whining as she finds her peak. He follows soon after, in three snaps of the hips.

“Gods, Emma,” he moans against her neck, wrecked as can be.

“Say it again.”

He looks up even as he lays on her chest, confusion in his eyes until it dawns on him. He smiles and kisses her jaw. “Emma.” He kisses her neck next, her shoulder, her collarbone. “Emma, Emma, _Emma_.”

In his mouth, her name sounds like a love letter.

She relishes in it, relishes in the weight of him above her and the soreness in her limbs, as she runs her fingers through his now damp hair. They remain a long while that way, simply enjoying the company of the other and the feeling of their lover’s naked body against theirs, until they have to agree they ought to get dress and go back to their lives. As difficult as it sounds, they have no other choice.

“I don’t know if I will be there for your birthday,” he tells her while tying the laces of her dress. “We are to visit another realm on King George’s demand. I don’t know how long it will take us.”

“Another realm?”

“Indeed.” He presses his lips to her shoulder, then turns her around so she faces him. “But next time we drop anchor, I promise. Next time, I will talk to your parents.”

She beams at him, and he catches her grin into another kiss.

 

…

 

She traces the nooks in the wood with the tip of her finger, unable to keep her discomfort at bay. Emma avoids the tavern these days, more comfortable with the other one a few streets down and farther from the harbour. But the merchant she met today insisted on this tavern, saying it would be easier for him to go back to his ship once their meeting over, and Emma knows to pick her battles. The tavern it was.

Now, the man long gone and a lukewarm tankard of ale in front of her, Emma regrets agreeing in the first place. Roland is late, which doesn’t help in the slightest, and she is left waiting for him to come back before heading to the castle. She hates every second of it.

The front door opens with a bang, startling the quiet patrons, and a group of sailors – obviously pirates, if the laughs and black leather are anything to go by – enters the tavern with little regard for the silence of the place. They pick a table in the middle, and Emma finds herself staring at them for some reason.

Only when blue eyes stare back does she gasp.

She would recognize him everywhere, even with the effects of time on his body – his shoulders are broader now, no trace of the lanky teenager she grew to know, and gone is his ponytail. A scar slices his cheek, and his every feature seems harder, darker.

If the way his eyes widen when they meet hers, he would recognize her everywhere, too. His grin blossom on his mouth, but it no longer is the shy smile of a young sailor. It has a sharp edge to it, one that whispers threats and dangers to her ear. Everything about him screams of danger, from the heavy black coat on his shoulders to the sword at his hips, the rings on his fingers – a pirate captain through and through.

“I know you,” he says in a chuckle, pointing a finger at her.

The sentence, echo of years long gone, brings a shiver of terror down her spine. Never would she had thought she could be scared of Killian Jones, and yet here she is, fingers tingling for the short dagger she always keeps in her riding boot.

“I know you, too,” she replies with a smirk of her own.

She will not give him the pleasure of showing her true feelings.

With a hand wave to his men – his _pirate crew_ , gods above – he walks toward her table, agile as a cat as he settles on the seat opposite hers. The tip of his boot brushes against her shin, and Emma forces herself not to move her foot.

“Tell me, love,” he drawls with a wicked smile. “Did you come to see me? Did you see the ship’s sails and ran towards me like the wee lass you were?”

“You wish,” she replies, no longer able to hide her sneer.

His eyes move up and down her body, lingering a little too long on the top of her breast peaking over the neckline of her dress. “Indeed,” he replies, voice dropping down an octave.

She doesn’t shiver at the sound of it. She doesn’t.

“I’m sure you still have those little coins of yours. What do you say, love?” His tongue swipes over his teeth. “Should we rent a room, for old time’s sake? I could do with those creamy legs of yours wrapped around my waist one more time.”

Her fingers tingle still, but with the urge to slap him this time. “Once again, you wish.”

“Once again, indeed.”

His grin is nothing like the one he used to give her, the one that could have her beaming at him in the snap of a finger. Nothing about this pirate is appealing to her, crass and rude as they come. She refuses for curiosity to settle in her mind, refuses to wonder what happened for her sailor to go and for this joke of a pirate to come in his place.

Thankfully (or maybe not) she is saved by the front door opening once more, and almost sighs in relief when Roland enters the room. He needs but once glance at her table for his hand to find the pommel of his sword, eyebrows shooting up in surprise as he makes his way towards her.

Killian follows her gaze, only to look back at her with a chuckle.

“Some things truly never –”

“Mama!”

The little body appears from behind Roland and rushes at her side. Emma scoops the infant up in her arms, his tiny face immediately pressed to her neck as he kisses her and wraps his chubby arms around her in a messy embrace. Killian’s eyes go wide at the sight of him, taking in his hair (black as night) and his age (just shy of five year old). The question is on the tip of his tongue, but Emma doesn’t leave him such a pleasure. “He’s not.”

He stares at Henry for another heartbeat, before his mouth contorts into a sneer of his own. “I see you’ve been busy in my absence.”

“You’re a pig.”

She stands up and leaves. With her back to him, she only hears the squeaks of his leather coat as he stands up too, then Roland clicking his tongue at him, surely with a hand to his chest so he won’t follow her. She forces herself not to react as she tightens her hold around Henry and opens the door to the tavern. Once outside, Roland joins her in three long strides, throwing her a glance full of sense. She elects to ignore him, for now.

“Who was it, Mama?” Henry asks against her ear.

“No one, darling. Absolutely no one.”

 

…

 

Emma knows she will surely regrets it, and sooner rather than later, but when comes morning the following day, she finds herself walking toward the harbour. Roland is nowhere to be seen – she grew past the need to have a guard by her side at all times long ago. His absence is a relief, for she wouldn’t bear the weight of his eyes on her for what she is about to do, the weight of his opinions on the matter.

The tavern is empty so early in the day, far from the evening crowd gathering within those four walls, but Emma knows pirates. They will waste every single coin they stole on rum and whores once their ship anchored in a harbour. If the glimpse of Killian she was offered yesterday is anything to go by, he is no different from any other pirate. He will be there.

And indeed he is, sitting at the table they claimed as there all those years ago and nursing a glass of rum. He doesn’t startle when she sits on the chair opposite his, doesn’t even look up from where he is staring down his drink.

“Her Royal Highness gracing me with her presence. What an honour, I must say.”

“Cut the crap, Killian.”

His eyes widen even so slightly, a flash of the naïve boy he used to be, and it catches Emma off-guard of a second. She doesn’t need those reminders of a past long gone, doesn’t need him to come back and haunt her after so many years apart. Coming today was a mistake, she knows, and yet here she is, unable to be close to him but also incapable of staying away.

“Feisty,” he says, more of an after-thought than anything, as if remembering this act he’s being playing.

At least she hopes it’s an act.

“Care to explain why you disappeared into the horizon one day without even looking back?”

It’s petty, she knows. But she remembers all those days spent watching past the window, waiting for the Jewel of the Realm to appear in the distance – waiting, a little more impatience each day until she became a little less hopeful. Days turning into weeks, weeks into months, until she faced the truth. He wasn’t coming back.

That’s when the stories had reached her.

“Because you promise to come back and next thing I know, people are saying you mutinied and killed your brother? What the hell, Killian?”

He grits his teeth, a muscle popping in his jaw, as he averts his eyes. There is not shame in his gaze, though, only grief and anger. “And you believed it?”

“At first, no,” she concedes. “But then came all those whispers about your crimes.”

“I didn’t kill him. How could you ever believe I killed Liam?” He looks back at her in a glare. Perhaps it is a play of light with the candles, but she swears his eyes are rimmed with red and a little wet. “King Georges sent us on this bloody island to fetch poison. Poison, Emma! He would have gone to war and killed every soldier on sight with it. Liam died because of him, and I swore to have my vengeance.”

“By becoming a pirate?”

“Aye.”

There is stubbornness in the set of his jaw, in the hardness of his eyes. This doesn’t change anything, though – doesn’t change the fact that he left her, that he never came back for him. She cried herself to sleep, that day she heard of the Jewel’s crimson flag. Cried for their past love and her broken heart, cried because she couldn’t understand why he didn’t come back to him. She wasn’t enough, she had never been enough, the thought leaving a bitter taste in her mouth and a hardness around her heart.

It must be written all over her face – he was always so good at reading her – for Killian reaches for her hand, her name tumbling past his lips in a soft whisper. His fingers brush against the bracelet around her wrist, and he looks down to it with a broken look on his features. She snaps her hand back.

“You kept it.”

“Yes. As a reminder never to believe a man’s promises.”

He looks up at her, and it’s her sailor’s eyes she meets. It is too painful a vision, so she looks at her hands in her lap, forces herself to breath through her nose. It was a bad idea. She ought to go back to the castle.

“Who’s the lad?”

She snorts a laugh through her nose, shakes her head. “Not yours, I told you.” Some kind of morbid curiosity forces her to look up again. He looks – disappointed, almost, and it doesn’t help. She can’t think of a life where he would have been the one to father her children, can’t think of a life with him by her side, waking up pressed to his warm chest as he drops kisses on her shoulder. It is nothing but a child’s fantasy, and Emma grew out of it a long time ago.

It is painful, and she wants him to hurt too.

“His father is out of the picture. Turns out you are not the only man to make promises he can’t keep.”

“Emma…”

But she stands, unable to go on like this, incapable of keeping the tears at bay. They prickle at the corners of her eyes, and she’ll be damn if she starts crying in front of him. So she snatches her wrist from his hold once more, ignores how he calls her name with desperation in his voice, and leaves the tavern.

She soldiers on.

 

…

 

“I am too old to play these games.”

Emma looks up from the book in her lap. It is a cold winter afternoon, and she is bundled up in a blanket next to the window – fluffy snowflakes fall softly outside, covering everything white. It is beautiful, peaceful. Henry plays with his nurse in another room, and Emma allows herself a rare moment alone, far from her duties as a mother and a future queen.

She blinks at Roland as he enters her quarters, only to put a single rose on the table near her. The flower’s petals are white like the snow outside, breathtaking. She frowns at it, then at Roland as his words settle in.

“If I go to the harbour now, will I find a ship with white sails and yellow paint?”

She asks, even if she doesn’t need the answer. It is written all over Roland’s face, in how exasperated he is to be once more caught in the middle of – whatever it is Killian and she share now. She doesn’t dare calling it a relationship when she refuses to meet him down at the tavern.

His ship drops anchor in the harbour more often than not now, as if he is unable to stay away for too long. It would be endearing, were it not so damn annoying. She made it clear she didn’t want him back in her life, and yet he keeps trying, like the young fool he hasn’t been in a very long time.

“Being a message-carrier for enamoured pirates isn’t part of my functions, and you know it.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Roland rolls his eyes – she might be sorry, it doesn’t change the fact that the pirate keep harassing him every chance he get, knowing fully well the guard is his only way of contacting Emma. She replies with a sarcastic little smile as Roland makes his way back outside her quarters.

“You should have told your parents when you had the chance.”

What he doesn’t say, _you should have listened to me_.

 

…

 

Emma idly wonders why it keeps happening.

She lets out a breath as her back collides with the wall, only for a moan to escape her mouth as his lips lash out on her neck, tongue and teeth on the sensible skin. His hands grab her thighs, and she needs little probing to wrap them around his waist as he hauls her up. His hips align with her, the length of him hard against her, and he presses into her once, twice, pleasure making her shiver and claw at his shoulders.

“Emma,” he breathes against her neck as he turns around and walks the few steps between the wall and the bed. She falls on the mattress with little grace, and he joins her soon, hands tearing at the skirts to her dress.

He has little patience for stripping her out of her clothes until she lies naked beneath her, instead opting to bundle her dress at her waist. He wastes little time after that, flat of his tongue against her warm entrance. She is wet already, just from kissing him, just with the thrill of things to come, and so he easily adds two fingers, curling them deep inside her.

She gasps, bites down on her lip not to moan. There is no point in keeping quiet – the innkeeper knows, his crew knows. Hell, the entire kingdom probably is aware that the princess is screwing the sailor turned pirate.

She doesn’t care.

Not when she is so close to the edge already, just from his fingers and his mouth, not when she can only grab a handful of his hair and press his face closer to her, guiding his movements, faster, deeper. He nips at her sensible flesh, startling her, and she slaps the side of his head in retaliation, his chuckle warm and tingling against her skin.

She pulls him back to her then, unties his breeches just enough to pull his leather pants down his hips, just enough for him to burry himself deep within him. He likes it rough and fast but so does she, raising her hips so they meet her in an unforgiving rhythm, pain mixing with pleasure mixing with something else.

Heartbreak, maybe.

Love, mostly.

When she comes, it is rough and fast too, screaming his name until he swallows it down with a kiss, chases his own release soon after. He lets himself fall on top of her, unmoving even when he grows soft and tender inside her. Sometimes, with enough coaxing and whispering in his ear, he will be hard again, will settle a new rhythm in a matter of minutes. Not today.

Today is spent in post-coital bliss (denial) as she runs her fingers through his hair and remembers another time when they found themselves in the same position.

“I waited for you.”

He doesn’t move, but she feels his sigh against her neck, his fingers tightening their hold on her hip. The weight of him above her matches the heaviness in her chest.

“I came back,” he replies in a whisper. “I’m sorry it took me so long.”

“So am I.”

 

…

 

Next time he sends roses, they are red as blood.

She fails not to read anything into it.

 

…

 

Roland enters the thrown room, not quite running but it’s a close thing. He grabs her by the arm, having little care as to the fact he interrupted her in the middle of a conversation with her Aunt Red, and pulls her along with him as he nears the throne. Emma tries to swat at his shoulder, with little effect.

“What on earth, Roland?”

“He’s _here_.”

That effectively shuts her up, and Emma turns her head to find Killian standing in the doorway of the throne room, looking both out of place and like he belongs. He shaved, his cheeks pink and bare, and changes his clothes too – something not unlike the uniform he used to wear. The jacket hugs his shoulder nicely, and his sword shines by his side. He looks like the proper gentleman he could have grown to be, and Emma watches in horror and he walks toward the thrones when both her parents sit.

“You Royal Highness,” he says as he bows to her mother, then does the same with her father, hand on his heart and solemn look in his eyes. “Captain Killian Jones of the Jewel of the Realm.”

“What is your enquiry, Captain?” her mother asks.

Even bowing, he glances Emma’s way with the ghost of a smirk. “I am here to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

Emma gasps, but she isn’t the only one. Everyone at court has fallen silent, staring at that stranger asking to wed the crown princess. Her heart races so fast she is afraid it will stop at any moment now, and she grabs Roland’s arm to keep herself balanced. Snow White casts her a glance, surprised and amused, before focusing back on him.

“Yours is no small favour, Captain.”

“I know, Your Royal Highness. But I have been in love with the princess since we were wee children, and it has since been my deeper desire to become her husband.” He pauses, glances up at the queen and king. “As well as becoming a father figure for the prince, of course.”

As if aware people are talking about him, Henry materialises by her side all of a sudden. Emma lets go of Roland, if only to grab her son, and Henry wraps his arms around her neck, his legs around her waist. He watches the scene unfolding in front of him, fascinated.

“We cannot give you our blessing without Princess Emma’s approval first,” his father chimes in, looking like he swallowed a particularly bitter lemon.

Killian’s lips twitch as he stands straighter, then comes to stand in front of her. He winks at her, mirth dancing in the blue of his eyes, then bows to her, too. “Your Highness,” he says, the edge of a laugh in the stern tone of his voice. “Would you do me the honour of becoming my wife, at last?”

Even pressing her lips into a thing lip, the grin blossoms on her mouth. She turns her head to Henry, presses a kiss to his cheek. “What do you say, darling? Should Mama marry the pirate?”

Henry’s eyes widen, and he nods shyly.

Killian looks at the boy with no small amount of wonder and devotion in his eyes, even as he steps closer to put a hand on Emma’s hip. She all but forgets about the throne hall in which they are standing, all but forgets about the lords and ladies watching their every move, listening to their every word. Only count him and Henry, only count the fast beating of her heart and the grin on Killian’s lips.

“Yes,” she says, chokes on the word with a sob. “Yes, I’ll marry you, you idiot.”

_At last_.


End file.
